(posted by Faustus, M.D.)
An organization that develops new musicals is producing a cabaret show of my songs that opens in a week and a half. Since this was kind of a last-minute thing, there’s been very little time to promote, and in order to get postcards (to send to my mailing list) in time for them to do any good, I had to buy a vast quantity of them.
I just found out that the producing organization gave me the wrong telephone number for people to order tickets. The guy who gave me the information is dyslexic and switched three numbers.
I now have 5,000 post cards about my show that tell people to call some poor schmuck in midtown to get tickets.
I face one of the more attractive choices ever offered me: get a repetitive stress injury from crossing out “686” and writing “868” 5,000 times, or play to an empty house.
I am going to shoot anybody who tells me to have a nice day today.
troubled diva 